


Mercedes Jones, The Devil, and Santana

by SC182



Category: Glee
Genre: Coda, Episode Related, Fix-It, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:09:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SC182/pseuds/SC182
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana said, “We’s be goin' to Breadstix.” And they went.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mercedes Jones, The Devil, and Santana

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N** : A coda of sorts for the events of Duets and Never Been Kissed. Santana’s demand for top bitches being fierce had to be answered.
> 
> **Spoilers** : Through Never Been Kissed

She’s in the middle of switching out her textbooks—American Literature for Chemistry and Geometry, all the while missing Kurt like a fashionable lost appendage. It doesn’t take much for her to imagine him standing beside her, trying to hijack her locker mirror so he can apply another blanket of citrus-scented mist organic Paul Mitchell style and hold glaze to his already perfect hair.   
  
Funny how all the things that used to make her bitch are the things she misses most. Though it pains to her to think about her best friend being chased into the uniformed arms of a skeptically gay or ungay Hogwarts, as it may be, she’s simply happy that he is safe finally, and out of the reach of the ever increasingly psycho-swaying Karofsky.   
  
Then again, Mercedes will allow herself to think of anything else before the disaster-in-waiting that is reading Huckleberry Finn in the upcoming period and her teacher’s earnest reminder at the start of each class that any usage of the _certain words_ are strictly in accordance to the text and not meant to offend. A small part of her almost feels bad for the hairy eyeball that she trains on Mr. Duffy.   
  
An evil part of her likes to watch the man squirm, so her hardboiled _I can’t believe you are doing this_ glare makes more appearances than necessary. Luckily, Mercedes can play off most of her attitude as a consequence of being perpetually disgusted by his short sleeved dress shirts riddled with washed out coffee stains and omnipresent sweat puddles.  
  
Like a saint, her willingness to forgive and forget only goes so far. Just like Kurt. Foot in mouth disease and unmitigated fashion disasters zap all the sympathy she has in supply. But she tries, God help her, to be a nice person. Mercedes mostly succeeds, but finds it hard to commit to the task when extremely annoyed.   
  
Today will be one such test of her resolve. Ultimately, Mr. Duffy will apologize again, making her not necessarily internal angry (black) lady turn up the sniper-like glare to a record bitch level of eleven. She longs for the day when he recognizes his failures in fashion and cultural sensitivity. Until then, she simply wants him to direct the class without spraying any of them with his nervous sweat, and better yet, keep his pre-lesson disclaimers in his bad idea file.   
  
Even her conscience sounds like Kurt. There’s no doubt that he agrees with her, even though he’s not here to witness the mounting train wreck that American Literature has become. He agrees preemptive apologies for derogatory epithets are always awkward like twisting in one’s seat with after the terrible combination of a patriotic wedgie and bad cafeteria food.   
  
Their conversations have been grudgingly apologetic on both sides for lack of knowing and lack of sharing. And she still feels bad that she hasn’t done more for him, though Kurt is the first one to tell her that she shouldn’t feel too bad.   
  
Mercedes is on the verge of laughing as she shuts her locker, when a voice, set permanently on annoyed asks, “Do you think she’d care less about her nose if I cut all her hair off, then punch her in the face? If Barbra could rock the Yentl, who knows about Berry?”  
  
Having watched her fair share of National Geographic specials about lions on the savannah, Mercedes knows that value of showing no fear in the presence of a predator. As gauche as it is to compare high school to the dog eat dog food chain of the animal kingdom, it is an apt description, and Santana, Ms. Fierce Funbags herself, fancies herself to be top lioness on the savannah.  
  
Mercedes is simply too sure of herself to be physically afraid of Santana. After all, she could take Santana to the carpet any day of the week and twice on Sunday, if she wanted. Though that elusive nail file of Santana’s may prove to be the game changer.   
  
So she settles for simply saying, “What?”And waits for Santana’s eyes to finish their rotation inside her head to settle on Mercedes' face again.   
  
Santana scoffs and swings her ponytail about like the horse-hair whip that it is or better yet, a medieval mace. “Berry is still bugging about Finnocence getting all up on this and it is starting to make me want to light her on fire.” She punctuates with a floating manicured finger.   
  
Mercedes is momentarily distracted by Santana’s fierce French-tipped nails. Though she loathes admitting it, being on the Cheerios has its perks. The manicures that Coach Sylvester somehow manages to have allocated into her budget as team bonding made Kurt’s favorite spa seem like a flea market rat trap.   
  
“So I’m asking you, because--” _I’m doing you a favor by being seen talking to you in public_ is totally implied, “Coach Sylvester would totally kill me for going to prison and missing nationals. Plus, that shade of orange would make me look like one of the Fanta Girls and that’s just.not.cute.”   
  
It’s a sad state of affairs for Mercedes to admit that she finds Santana, appropriately nicknamed Satan by lesser Cheerios and practically everyone else, scarier than the literal devil. Unlike the actual devil, Santana has a way of manifesting out of thin air with a lethal amount of smug in her demeanor and armed with a self-esteem shredding retort, capable of rendering all save a select immune few into weeping snotty-faced messes. Basically the McKinley High version of a Dr. Phil guest.   
  
Mercedes clutches her books fractionally closer to her breasts, mostly to ward off any potential attacks to separate her heart from her chest. According to Jacob Ben Israel’s blog, Santana takes weekly baths in virgin blood. She may also be prone to eating virgin hearts, but Mercedes is pretty sure that’s something Quinn told her as a joke while they watched one of Quinn’s older sister’s horror DVDs. The movie has some vague plot about werewolves in Paris; though they spent most of the movie skewering nineties fashion.  
  
Yet, the fact remains: Santana Lopez could be a werewolf who eats and drinks virgin blood. Mercedes chooses not to test that theory. One, because she doesn’t care, and two, she has class.   
  
So she schools her expression and cocks her head to the side to add the necessary non-verbal emphasis to what she’s about to say. “You kill Rachel, then we can’t compete at Regionals, and I’m not about to let you or anyone else stop us from getting spotlight we deserve. Or more importantly, me.”  
  
Santana’s swinging ponytail manages to find an unfortunate victim as she tosses it over her left shoulder again. “Chill, Jennifer Hudson, I don’t need you to go all psycho Dream Girls on me,” Santana says with maximum annoyance in her voice. “I could care less about Willow. If she wants to burst into tearful song about Finnessa every ten seconds that’s not my fault. Plus, it wasn’t any good, so I don’t see what’s the big deal, other than her missing out on jiggling his man nonnies.”  
  
Santana has an uncanny way of making normal conversations feel like an unjust waste of her time and energy.   
  
Mercedes involuntarily flinches and expects two punches for being caught. Instead, Santana purses her lips and bats her Maybelline tear and blood-resistant lashes with simmering disgust. “Um, whatever, I don’t have time to explain to you just how wrong that statement is. So can I help you with something …”   
  
If there is truly a merciful god out there as Mercedes has been taught to believe, then Santana will impose on her no longer, because the itch to either snatch Santana’s ponytail off the back of her head or simply take her to the carpet is rising. That Jennifer Hudson crack deserves a solid smack at least.   
  
“Breadstix,” Santana says as if the word is self-explanatory.   
  
“Yeah, the best restaurant in town, where your picture is posted behind the hostess’ booth and there’s a special on the menu named after you.” Mercedes remembers seeing Santana’s picture as the hostess bent over to retrieve menus. A shudder passed through the poor woman when Mercedes asked about Santana’s picture. Then Mercedes learned about the horrors of offers of unlimited breadsticks and wheelbarrows backed by calls to iron faced attorneys.   
  
Mercedes sighs as the first bell rings and the student traffic clusters and bottlenecks on the other side of the hallway, in order to stay as far away from Santana as possible.   
  
“Whatever. You and me. Breadstix. Friday.”  
  
Outside of singing together, Mercedes can’t fathom any reason for wanting to spend time in an enclosed space with Santana. “Why?”  
  
In the time that it has taken Mercedes to answer, Santana’s attention is diverted to a decent looking baseball player that walks towards the science wing. “For someone who wears such bright colors, you don’t seem to be that bright yourself,” Santana sing-songs as she continues to watch the baseball player that is subsequently also watching her in return, thus he misses the door opening to Mr. Fogler’s physics class and is rewarded with his first concussion.   
  
“Pity,” Santana murmurs to herself, pouting at the loss of a potential date or prey. Which are equated to the same thing in Mercedes’ mind.   
  
“Watch it, J-Ho.” The smirk that crosses Santana’s glossy lips would be pretty on anyone else. On Santana, it may be a signal to gird one’s loins from incoming sneak attack. She doesn’t have time for a verbal slap fight with Santana.   
  
Really, she needs to go to class. One that is far far away from Santana and her cryptic mind games. “Look, I need to go to class, so if there’s a point to this, then let’s find it already.”  
  
Santana draws in a breath of feigned divine patience. It’s a technique Mercedes remembers learning at the hands and ear-splitting boom of Coach Sylvester’s megaphone. A technique, as she recalls, that should be used when speaking to the color-blind, deaf, the should-be mute, and hunchbacks. Mercedes doesn’t know where to begin feeling offended.   
  
Santana nods, “Agreed.” Santana’s fingers find their way into the air to begin their gesticulating puppet show. “Some of us have reputations and can’t be caught lingering like losers. Coach promised to make me run until I drop a cup size the next time I’m late to class.”   
  
She steps closer to Mercedes and that sassy smirk blossoms into a genuine smile, and Mercedes feels her heart skip a beat. A remotely friendly Santana is an entirely new animal, one that she is not sure how to approach. She plans to choose her words wisely, likening them to a big pointy stick that can parry as well as jab, if necessary.   
  
“We should have won that duet contest. No ifs, buts or voting needed,” Santana declares with the fire in her eyes kicking up to another notch.   
  
Mercedes can’t argue with Santana for once. “Have you finally realized this? We’re in the same glee club; where being the best doesn’t always, for most of us, mean getting the spot light.”  
  
Santana scoffs and dismisses Mercedes comment. “True, but I have it on good authority that Barbie and Ken are headed down the same road as their plastic counterparts. With that, a little birdie may have also seen a certain former preggo toss these in the trash.”  
  
Granted, Mercedes and Quinn are nowhere near as close as they had been during the last four months of Quinn’s pregnancy. Their friendship almost seems like a faint memory or a dream, if not for pictures of them in Mercedes room and Facebook. Mercedes has reconciled this Quinn with the former Queen Bee and the disgraced Sixteen and Pregnant nomadic ex-Cheerio is no more. She’ll let Quinn have this time, all the space she wants to figure her life out, because high school is all about the image one portrays and without it, any and everyone can see just who lurks behind the façade, and that is a terrifying thought.   
  
She isn’t aiming to hurt Quinn, if that’s Santana’s game. Mercedes opens her mouth to say just as much, when Santana using viper fast reflexes hooks her arm through Mercedes and begins to herd them down the hall towards their respective classes.   
  
“Don’t worry I’m not setting you up to hurt Quinnten or anything. I’m simply taking advantage of an opportunity. I also have it on good authority--” i.e.Becky “That Coach Sylvester will be out of town this week, meaning Cheerios can be seen eating in public without worrying she’ll sneak into our houses while we’re sleeping, so she can torch our uniforms before we stretch them with our distended bellies full of failure.”   
  
Wow.  
  
Just wow.   
  
Mercedes is rendered speechless. Expecting just as much, Santana pats Mercedes’ hand that is ensnared between them like a rat in a cage. Clearly, leaving Mercedes gob smacked is one task she can check off her list of daily evil deeds.  
  
They begin to slow their pace outside a classroom that is clearly not Mercedes'. “Now, as I said before: you. Me. Breadstix. Friday night. Meet me at my house.”  
  
Call it being struck by Christian Charity or the harmonizing spirit of glee club, Mercedes nods, accepting Santana’s invitation.   
  
“Good,” Santana replies, drawing her response out with a mixture of sarcasm and an unidentifiable something else. She releases Mercedes arm a few feet outside of the window to her approaching classroom. Santana waves Mercedes away with spirit fingers so stiff, they might as well be injected with botox. Being seen together would do nothing for Santana’s school cred, while the sudden association would increase Mercedes.  
  
As Mercedes walks away from Santana’s classroom, she becomes aware of several things. One, she may have potentially set herself up to be humiliated in public; two, she may find herself an unwitting accomplice to Santana’s demonic shenanigans; three, her class is on the other end of the building and she will definitely be late; and four, she has nothing to wear.  
  
The last of which makes her conscience, aka Brain Kurt, scream in anguish. She’s sixteen; these are her priorities. This gives her a reason to call Kurt outside of their scheduled call Skype nights. Maybe, he’ll find the evil lurking behind the invitation.   
  
Mercedes can only hope as the late bell rings.   
  


* * *

  
  
Cherry Lane has been Mercedes home street all her life. The fact that it happens to be the same for Santana Lopez shocks just about everyone else. Cherry Lane is one of the most diverse subdivisions in all of Lima.   
  
Santana lives a few houses down in a home that’s fairly normal for an upper middle class family. She’s well off, even though Mercedes has heard her mention on occasion her supposed Lima Heights Adjacent street cred. Someone really needed to help that demented child before Santana’s shenanigan’s resulted in getting the smackdown laid down on her. Because Santana’s Lima Height street cred was like Mercedes’ membership to the Yoddle of the Month Club: nonexistent.   
  
Not going to lie about it, the thought of chomping down on a bucket of popcorn while watching Santana get in a real scrap is highly entertaining. Probably ranking up there with her top five favorite things on Facebook.   
  
Daydreams of Santana fighting in a cage matches aside, Cherry Lane is a nice subdivision, full of happy productive families. Mike and Matt live two blocks east, while Azimio Adams’s family lives one block west. Mercedes shivers not from cold, but Mrs. Maybelle Adams, Azimio’s grandmother, asking yet again about her boyfriend status. If there’s one thing Mercedes is incapable of doing, it’s lying in church. Mrs. Maybelle pushes her resolve though.   
  
“Jesus take the wheel,” she says under breath and shivers. The urge to throw up in her mouth is so strong and is only invoked when Ms. Maybelle tries to set her up with Azimio. That’s one hook-up Mercedes doesn’t wish on her worst enemy.   
  
Mercedes checks herself over in her rollaway bedroom mirror. Her hair is sleekly coiffed and curled at the ends. Her outfit chosen with Kurt sartorial oversight is the perfect blend of late winter fabulousness and practicality. Her hot ensemble is topped off by a cutesy silver charm necklace that she saw in Cosmo that Kurt hunted down like a bloodhound on a trail.   
  
She yells goodbye to her mom and daddy, who are immersed in their competitive world of Wheel of Fortune puzzles. Since neither she nor Santana have ponied up a car for the evening, she leaves the house with her mom’s keys firmly in hand and the hope that she’ll get a chance to drive her mom’s new SUV.   
  
Mercedes walks down four houses, crosses the street, while mindful of Mr. Taylor’s prized poodle’s rebellious streak of pooping on the sidewalk. Making deliberate steps as she passes the next three houses, Mercedes arrives on the threshold to the Lopez home minus any dog droppings on her boots.   
  
A petite older woman with curly salt and pepper hair that bears a load of resemblance to Mrs. Lopez, Santana’s mom, answers the door. Nairy Cruz is one of the reasons Mercedes knows that Santana wasn’t spawned from pure evil.   
  
Nairy Cruz, who ushers Mercedes inside to the portico, is a sweet woman, who bakes like most grandmothers and compliments Mercedes on looking so adorable. She also comments on wishing she saw more of Mercedes instead of some of Santana’s more questionable friends. Mercedes cracks a slow smile, knowing full well that Mrs. Cruz has met Puck and does not approve.   
  
Footsteps echo from up above and Mercedes knows only seconds separate her from relative civility and into the perfectly filed clutches of Santana. “You look cute,” Santana says with no preamble as she descends the staircase.  
  
Seeing Santana in clothes other than her Cheerios uniform or glee performance gear is disorienting. Santana is dressed similar to Mercedes, in terms of donning dark jeans, but veers off into her own direction with the sweater, sleeve over vest and crisp pinstripe fedora.   
  
Santana leans down to kiss her grandmother. “We’re going to Breadstix. We’ll be back soon.”   
  
Nairy kisses Santana’s cheek. “Have fun. It’s good to know that you’re going to eat, instead of climbing mountains and run marathons like you normally do.” Nairy turns to Mercedes and mimes stage-whispering, “My granddaughter is too skinny. She could hula hoop through a cheerio.”  
  
Mercedes snorts unrepentantly, while Santana glares. “Grandma,” she whines. It is the sound all teenagers know: embarrassment.  
  
Nairy rolls her eyes in a gesture that is so classically Santana that Mercedes experiences a case of déjà vu. “I’ll let you all go. I’m embarrassing her. It’s been good seeing you, Mercedes.” She turns away to go deeper into the house, not before sighing, “If she had more meat on her bones like you, I’d be happy.”   
  
Santana growls a string of unintelligible words and swings the front door open, calling behind her, “Let’s go” as she walks towards her car.   
  
The drive to Breadstix is genuinely pleasant. Santana syncs her iPhone to the car stereo and blasts Toledo’s number one station for hip hop and R&B. During their drive, they discuss new waves in hip-hop dancing and wagered a bet on who can shake it like a salt shaker better. By the time, the conversation steers closer to the duty whine and the Dougie, they’ve resigned themselves to the fact that they’ll never get a chance to perform said dances in glee.   
  
Mercedes considers the looks on her gleemates faces when they unleash a gyrating wave of neck twisting reggae dancehall shaking and fluid pops without much locking. Talk about blowing their minds. “Maybe if we recruit Brittany and Mike like Kurt did with his Single Ladies video, we’ll be able to get more flavor in that room.”  
  
Santana’s reply is a naked, “Yeah” and nothing more. It’s also the first time Mercedes can remember mentioning Brittany in Santana’s presence. Brittany, who is the Kurt to Santana’s Mercedes, hasn’t been her usual shadow-like self linked at the pink by Santana’s side. That duets assignment, like herpes, has lingered and keeps affecting all the relationships in glee.   
  
Breadstix is packed as is customary for a Friday night. They play a round of musical parking spaces, which leads to Santana spitting inventive curses to be visited on the mothers and children of every person that takes a space from them.   
  
Inside, the restaurant is toasty and warm; the scent of fresh bread floats across the room and the quick side-eye Mercedes flicks Santana’s way shows that Santana is barely holding her shit together.   
  
“I’m not kidding about that picture of you,” Mercedes manages to grit as she reels Santana in from a basket of unattended breadsticks. “I don’t want my picture beside yours.” Because that would be straight embarrassing.   
  
The hostess returns and rifles through the stack of menus and reads off the next name on the waiting list. When looks up finding Santana and Mercedes before her podium, immediately she pales. Mercedes has borne witness to people pissing themselves at the feet of Santana, but never has she seen someone lose twenty years of their life and look like their job and soul are simultaneously imperiled.   
  
“It’s you…you’re back,” the hostess swallows the lead ball that has suddenly formed in her throat.   
  
Santana’s cackles, “And I brought a friend.”The way she hisses dramatically at the end would make any listening to the conversation swear that Santana possesses a forked tongue.   
  
An apology is on the tip of her tongue, however the traumatized hostess turns on her heels and marches them back to a booth that has a clear line of sight to the bakery window. Mercedes grimaces; the idea of going home smelling as though she’s rolled around in bread dough is very unappealing and may trigger her a brief flirtation with arson, in particular with Santana’s horded breadsticks.   
  
The hostess drops the menus on the table and all but scurries away from them, screaming behind closed lips.   
  
Santana laughs, “She definitely needs a valium or something, because I’m not that bad; I’m just keeping them honest like Anderson Cooper. They should be thanking me.” The white tips of her French manicure tap out a rough staccato over tiny print on the menu.   
  
“Two words: breadsticks and lawsuit,” Mercedes points out, knowing that Santana’s natural reflexes have a way of deflecting facts of reality and invalidating anything she deems false. “  
  
Santana shrugs, “I know what I’m having. The S.A.L. Special.”   
  
The S.A.L isn’t listed under the nightly specials, which are a mix of standard Italian and American fare. Cheese ravioli sounds good for a night like this, though the tots are calling her. “What the hell are you talking about?” She suspects Santana either made up the menu item or knows of some obscure menu option that involves least requested organ meats in pungent sauces.   
  
The menu in Mercedes hands is pulled from her grasp and flipped around. Santana’s velociraptor claws circle microscopic text at the bottom of the laminated page. “That’s the S.A.L. Named after yours truly. Unlimited breadsticks, salad and diet coke for whoever asks for it.” She raises her palm for a high five, “Now, holla at ya girl.”  
  
Mercedes stares at Santana’s palm like it had the misfortune of being covered in Jacob Ben Israel’s ball and butt sweat. “Heifer, you crazy.”  
  
Santana smirks, “And that’s why everyone loves me.” More like wants to push her off a bridge, Mercedes thinks.   
  
Naming sandwiches after local heroes and dead famous people is one thing. Giving a sassy cheerleader her own special on a menu to stave off a lawsuit is absolutely ridiculous. Then again, the economy is on the down swing and Mercedes has seen Santana cry on the dime at the request of Coach Sylvester, and she’s almost as good as Rachel with the fake tears though Mercedes will go to her grave saying nothing about it; so convincing a jury that she was duped by Breadstix beguiling offer of unlimited breadsticks would end in Santana's favor.   
  
Instead of further pondering the injustices of life and reasons why she doesn’t have a Mercedes Platter with unlimited tots named after her, she decides to ask, “What does the A stand for?”  
  
Santana’s brutal scowl is repelling servers from the table. All the servers in the area have found cups to refill or bread to distribute in lieu of waiting on Santana Lopez. “Oh, the A? It’s my middle name.”  
  
Mercedes exhales slow and painfully, “And that is?” Talking to Santana while she’s on the prowl for breadsticks is like dealing with Kurt at a trunk sale. Absolutely painful.   
  
The glare Santana levels across the room intensifies, acting like a tractor beam on Star Trek and reels in the closest server, who has the good fortune to not look like he is going to piss himself. “Angelica.”  
  
Mercedes decides to blame the ambient yeast for fermenting her brain. She places her head on the table and laughs until her sides hurt. Jacob Ben Israel’s blog will probably report that she’s a nutjob in a matter of minutes, but the irony of Satanic Santana’s middle name is just too much for her to stomach without busting a gut from laughter.   
  
“Are you done howling yet, Chaka Khan, ‘cause I’m ready to order,” Santana cuts her eyes to the menu and looks too pissy to be embarrassed by the situation.   
  
Mercedes wipes her eyes and glances at the waiting server. She makes a vague apology and decides to go ahead and get the tots because there’s sure no reason for her not to have them.   
  
The serve looks overcome by relief once he scampers away from the table. “Sorry about that,” Mercedes says as she wipes the flowing tears from her eyes. Good thing she invested in waterproof mascara at Kurt’s urging. “I wasn’t expecting that.”  
  
Santana sinks into the recesses of the shiny faux leather lining the booth. “It’s just a name. No big freaking deal.” Arms fold across her chest to add the extra spice to her classical example of sulking posture. “Call TMZ if you think it’s so blog worthy.”  
  
“It’s just that,” Mercedes dabs the corners of her eyes again, “Have your parents even met you? Angelica, really?”  
  
Santana’s eyes light up like someone plugged in a box full of tangled Christmas lights as her platter of breadsticks and salad approaches. “Whatever, it’s not like I use it anyway.” She whips her head around to force her glare on Mercedes, “You tell anyone…”  
  
Autopilot kicks in spilling forth all the presumptions or threats she’s heard Santana issue previously. No surprises here. “And you’ll either ruin me socially or attempt to stab me with your nail file. I hear ya.” The platter set in front of Santana reminds Mercedes of the beginning of the Flintstones cartoons where Fred waits for his delivery of brontosaurus ribs.   
  
There’s a literal tower of breadsticks sitting in front of Santana, accompanied by a normal size garden salad with optimally placed dressing on the side. The image is stranger than staring at a Salvador Dali painting while high. Trust her, the description applies.   
  
Mercedes knows better than to mention Brittany. “Riddle me this: why aren’t you here with Puck?”   
  
“He’s becoming a priest or a rabbi or something, so he can’t have sex, which totally sucks. He’s gone from being a sex shark to a sex turtle, and that totally kills my lady engine.”  
  
Again, there’s so much wrong with that statement that Mercedes has to stare at her plate of tots to find a center of reality. “Considering he got Quinn pregnant last year, I think he’s moving in the right direction.”  
  
“His summer nip tuck didn’t help either. Plus, juvie made him crazy. Puck told me, Britt and Wheels about how he ran the joint, but my cousin Marco who was locked up with him said the other guys stole his waffles and ripped out his nipple ring and made him cry like Little Bo Peep. So he went a little cray cray in the hay hay. Badass is sexy, crazy is just so tragic. Plus, he and Wheels have some sort of Brokebackesque thing going on. And don’t even get me started on whatever is going on with him and that Tons of Fun cavewoman from the AV Club. That’s just all kinds of fucked up and freaky.”   
  
“And you know this how?” Mercedes asks, because the idea of Puck and Artie in the aforementioned scenario is vaguely hot and unexpected. The thing with Lauren, Mercedes will wait to see how that turns out. “Did Brittany tell you that?”  
  
The breadsticks are now assembled into replica of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. It’s beautiful and shows that Santana is capable of focusing on things outside of cheerleading routines, songs, herself, Brittany and the mechanics of everyday evil. The fact that saying Brittany’s name is met with another expressive Kanye-esque shrug directs Mercedes to her next question.   
  
“Why did you really ask me here tonight?”  
  
Santana snaps the breadstick in her hand in half and lifts the two halves up to eye level, to begin determining which side is larger. As Mercedes has witnessed, the smaller will be consumed first, followed by the larger which Santana will savor for later. “I know in glee we’re supposed to look out for each other and stuff, and you were, like, actually a little more than decent when we worked together, so I figured someone needed to save you from looking eight kinds of pathetic.”  
  
After watching a marathon of Dynasty a few weekends ago with Kurt, she can easily write off the slap that she may lay on Santana as a product of being possessed by Alexis Carrington. “Okay, explain please.” Her hand is itching to slap. Phantom limb syndrome has been known to cause slapping sprees, according to Kurt.   
  
“You lost your side gay and now your life is just sad. You’re like Lady Gaga minus her funky fashion or Britney without autotune. You’re feeling guilty because things got ultra Oz-like and you didn’t know. No one knew, so you can’t blame yourself for him hopping a magic carpet to Eureka’s Castle.”  
  
Mercedes takes a deep breath, fast-forwards through a count to get to her point. “You’re one to talk. I’m his best friend. I’m supposed to have his back like he has mine and I shouldn’t have let any of these pea-brained assholes drive him away.” _From me_ “If no one else looks out for him, then I was supposed to and now…”  
  
Santana balances a breadstick on the tip of her nails. “He has a pint sized Superman at his beck and call, whose trying to be his best friend and gentleman caller.” The bread remains level and Mercedes marvels at the feat like Michael Jordan spinning a basketball that never stops on his finger.   
  
Mercedes’ face betrays her thoughts. Is it possible that Santana is slightly more psychic that Rachel claims to be? “No, I’m not psychic. Porcelain talks to me on occasion and tells me where to get the best cosmetics on the cheap. If I ever make it big, I’m keeping him as my personal stylist aka Gay Henchman Number One.”  
  
She feels the wetness on her chest and reaches up to touch her eyes. She’s crying again, big fat tears that are testing the limits of her water-proof mascara. “It’s not fair.”  
  
While Mercedes’ tears taper and embarrassment begins to set in, Santana tests the limits of her leaning tower by removing bits of bread and marinara sauce used as cement. “Whoever said life was fair lied. Life sucks even for someone as fabulous as me. I’ve come to learn that you shouldn’t expect much if you’re you, our cute ladyboy or anyone else in this cow town.”  
  
The yeast has surely gotten to her brain. Either that or the tots are mixed some sort of hallucinogen, which have usurped Mercedes higher mental faculties, in order to make her more susceptible to Santana’s mind control abilities. Because that’s the only way Mercedes can imagine the two of them agreeing about something deep and meaningful.   
  
Santana gestures at their server, who sprints over to hand off a bag full of steaming breadsticks and the check. The leaning tower of breadsticks is no longer as magnificent with bits and chucks missing from its façade. “I call this escaping the Dark Ages,” Santana says as she slides Mercedes the check.   
  
Mercedes blinks once, flicks her eyes at the check and back at Santana. Santana is the only person in existence with the balls to invite someone out using the promise of a free dinner and instead makes the guest pay. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” Mercedes slaps down the enough bills to cover the only entry on the check, i.e. her tots, and a tip big enough to buy couple rounds of donuts for the server and hostess’s trips to group therapy at St. Agnes.   
  
The server appears at Mercedes’ shoulder and gratefully accepts the check, the generous tip and the ruefully smile that tries to convey that the amount of crazy presented at this dinner is by no means a normal occurrence that should ever be associated with Mercedes Jones.   
  
By now Santana’s boredom has spurred her to pick up her knife for the first time that night to use said utensil as a miniature pickaxe to further destroy the monument to copious sticks of fluffy bread and supposedly non-reconstituted marinara sauce.   
  
The tower falls like the Roman Empire and Santana has the nerve to gaze at her destruction with an expression that lacks as a smirk or the usual twinkle of mischief in her brown eyes. “These breadsticks are cold and aren’t fit for the homeless. Let’s roll, I find scaring the wait staff into submission gets boring after a while. Plus, they’ve got that abused animal look and I haven’t even actively terrified any of them yet. That takes the fun out of everything.”  
  
To her dying day, Mercedes will swear the wait staff exhaled a big sigh of relief once they slipped their coats on and headed for the door. In the car, Santana puts on the soft piano songs of Alicia Keys in place of Toledo’s countdown of the most request hip hop songs of the day.   
  
During the ride back to Cherry Lane, Mercedes thinks about Kurt and the porous words, firmly delivered but flimsy at the core, that he delivered before walking out of McKinley and away from her. They’ve been drifting like empty bottles on a rough tide for a while. She wishes she would have seen something, spoken up like she normally does, made the right kind of threats to people who would listen and take her seriously, where they might dismiss him. The promise she made after his dad’s heart attack echoes like a shotgun blast, loud and resounding and spotlighting her failure as a friend.   
  
Before they were so connected, their relationship resembles a Chinese finger trap, a circuitous loop from one to the other. Losing him at this point is like losing a part of her and she feels rudderless. She wonders if he feels the same. He has his peace finally, but is he really happy? Mercedes feels like a thief if she asks if he is. Taking the well deserved peace and safety he has found at such a tremendous cost.   
  
She’ll call him tonight; make him talk to her about things that are deeper than uniforms, class schedules and homework. She’ll touch him the only way she can—with her words and apologize and make promises that she will forever keep.   
  
As they approach Cherry Lane, Mercedes clears her throat and says, “Next time, we’ll talk about Brittany.”  
  
Santana’s gaze slides from the road to Mercedes. “Why would we talk about her?”  
  
All things are easier to explain after a good deep breath. “If you’re telling me that I’m acting like someone stole my sunshine, then you’re acting like someone snatched up your brain-twin, cut off your right hand or set your life boat adrift; take your pick of metaphors. We’re in the same boat at the moment and I think you could use a friend, especially one as ridiculously sane and fabulous as me.”  
  
Santana remains silent as they park in the Lopez driveway. She doesn’t kill the engine, instead she lingers with her hand over the volume button thoughtfully. “Maybe, you’re right, Aretha,” she says before turning off the car and hopping out like a jackrabbit on speed.   
  
The night has gotten colder and Mercedes pulls her coat tighter around her body. Despite her burst of energy a few minutes prior, Santana leans against her car door with her head tilted back and eyes turned up to the sky. Mercedes reclines next to her, hoping Santana will hurry up ruminating because the cold is starting to become more than a mild annoyance to the tip of Mercedes’ nose.   
  
Without looking at her, Santana tells her with her characteristic bluntness, “Don’t think that I’m going to start weeping on your shoulder like you’re Oprah or one of those old chicks on The View. That shit is just not going to happen.” She drops her eyes to the red, white and black WMHS emblem on her key ring. “But maybe you’ll talk and I’ll listen or I’ll talk and you’ll listen.”  
  
“Yeah, that sounds like an idea.”  
  
“Damn right, it does,” Santana declares, blinking rapidly and any misconception that actual tears threatened to spill from her eyes. “You can pick the restaurant next week, but I warn you. They better have breadsticks wherever we go, ‘cause I got to get my breadsticks on.”   
  
Curiosity gets the better of Mercedes as she ponders what edifice Santana will undertake next using breadsticks as her brick and mortar. “Agreed.”  
  
“Alright, get home, Jones, before my grandmother comes out here and start lecturing us about proper curfews for young ladies.”   
  
Santana bumps her shoulder and pushed off the car to walk towards her front door. “I’ll see you Monday,” Mercedes says to which Santana silently nods.   
  
As Mercedes walks the three doors down, four across and looks out for stray gifts left behind by Mr. Lucas’ poodle, she considers that the night didn’t go as she imagined. For all the awkwardness, the night has been better than expected and everything that she didn’t know that she needed at the moment.   
  
She has a date with the devil next Friday night. Before then, she’ll try to get Santana to do another duet with her, this time working in all the dance moves they talked about earlier. She can’t wait to blow everyone's minds when they start winding up and rolling their necks like they have no bones.   
  
Small steps first.   
  
They aren’t friends. Not by a long shot. Maybe that’s exactly what they each need.   
  
Her house smells like popcorn when she opens the front door and her parents are watching some college ballgame and debating the championship series loudly. Her mom asks her if she had a good time.   
  
Mercedes says yes.  
  
Tomorrow, she’ll get up and make a list of every restaurant she can think of that serves breadsticks and scratch off all the ones that offer unlimited quantities. Mercedes rather no inflict undo mental trauma on anyone else as a result of breadstick advertisements.   
  
Mercedes gathers that Santana isn’t as evil as she originally estimated. Maybe Satan isn’t so bad after all, if given a nauseating amount of free bread and diet coke. They won’t ever be solid bffs, but Mercedes can see them exchanging no mercy-edged talks of inspiration. That or tension-releasing fights on the cheap inch thick school carpet.   
  
The latter doesn’t seem all that likely. Getting each other’s best friends back is a definitely.   
  
Mercedes Jones has made a pact with Santana Lopez, the devil of McKinley High, and surprisingly, everything seems fine. She laughs to herself. Kurt will never believe Santana Lopez is the catalyst for mending their friendship.  
  
Mercedes thinks she’ll keep it that way.   
  
The End


End file.
